Bran' New Suit
by littleblackdog
Summary: "They had never met before, to the best of Tom's recollection, but there was something eerily and inexplicably familiar about William Baggins all the same." Modern AU, reincarnation, Thorin Oakenshield/Bilbo Baggins romance, happy ending.
1. Bran' New Suit

_AN: It might be a little while yet before the slow burn of "Blended in Measure" ignites, and I really wanted to write something blatantly sexier today. Mix that desire with my elemental weakness for AUs, along with inspiration from a ridiculously tempting modern au gif set, and BAM! Modern Thilbo Bagginshield sexy happy-ending fun times._

_Modern Hobbit characters were admittedly weird to write, but I hope I've done them something approaching justice._

* * *

Gathering up his tablet and briefcase, Tom considered the mountain of work waiting upon his return to the office for all of fifteen seconds before slipping back up to the counter and grabbing another large Americano, this one to go. He wasn't about to spend more than forty-five minutes lingering about in a cafe in the middle of the day, even for an old friend; he'd send Andrew a text later that afternoon, not that the mad old bat ever checked his mobile.

It was a pleasantly sunny day, with a light, fresh gust of breeze, and balmy enough that Tom didn't bother buttoning his overcoat as he stepped outside. The cafe's alfresco seating was busier than inside, but a quick glance over the patrons didn't cause any familiar, silver-headed figure to materialize.

Andrew had likely forgotten; he wasn't precisely the sort for mobile reminders beeping at all hours, or even keeping a proper diary. Tom wasn't jealous, not exactly, but there were days when the thought of never caring one whit about the ringing of a phone or the ding of an email arriving seemed like a truly blissful notion.

With that thought whispering through the back of his mind, Tom didn't bother hailing a cab, content to enjoy the fine weather for just a bit longer. It would only take about twenty minutes to walk back to his office— with traffic the way it was, the cab ride wouldn't likely be much faster anyway.

And of course it was that impulse that brought him trotting around the corner, where Andrew sat placidly on a bench beneath one of the slender, neatly maintained trees meant to beautify this stretch of pavement. An anomalous row of green in a city of stone and steel— naturally, Andrew would have chosen a cafe with bloody trees outside, even if there were any number of more convenient places for the pair of them to meet, and with better coffee.

Andrew Grey had been a friend to Tom's family for years, though always the odd, unpredictable sort, swooping in and out of contact as he fancied. Before the phone call that had brought Tom out of the office today, he hadn't heard a single thing from Andrew in over a year, which wasn't terribly unusual.

The wreath of pale smoke curling around the man wasn't unusual either, rising up from the long wooden pipe hanging from his mouth. Though the white china cup and saucer was a bit incongruous for sipping tea on the pavement.

Glad for his own steaming coffee— perhaps the caffeine might help ward off the headache he could feel brewing behind his eyes— Tom walked over and suffered the weight of a benign but far too knowing smile.

"Good morning, Andrew." Taking a seat on the bench without waiting for an invitation, tucking his briefcase between his feet, Tom allowed himself a small, weary sigh. "You're looking well."

"Yes, I am, aren't I?" Perched on the shabbily painted bench, looking just slightly too rumpled to be proper in his finely tailored, pale slate suit and dove grey tie, Andrew took a deep drag from his pipe before blowing out a wide ring. "And a good morning to you, my friend. How go things?"

Close enough now to get a good whiff, Tom batted the sweet smoke away and levelled a glare in Andrew's direction. "For god's sake, man— This isn't Amsterdam, and it's not even _noon_."

"It's medicinal." Plucking the pipe from his lips, Andrew's smile didn't waver even fractionally as he lifted his teacup. He sat with his legs lazily crossed, and the saucer was balanced on his bent knee. "And the good folk at this cafe are even kind enough to bring me my drinks over here, so as not to trouble any other patrons. Aren't they lovely?"

Giving up the argument before it could even begin, Tom resigned himself to spending the rest of his day reeking like he should be wearing artfully torn jeans and listening to Pink Floyd. His coffee had cooled just enough to be drinkable without scalding, and he took a mouthful rather than saying anything else, leaning back against the bench and smoothing out his own suit. He'd probably have to have everything dry cleaned before he wore it again, even his new cobalt tie.

"You don't still smoke, do you?" Andrew asked, and Tom ran an idle hand over his beard, sparing a thought for the packet of Benson & Hedges in his top desk drawer (and the half-empty pack tucked away in his bedside table at home). He shook his head.

"Not for a while, no."

"Good for you." Andrew sounded comically sincere for a man currently puffing away at what smelled like a rich blend of strong tobacco and marijuana. "Nasty habit. You look dreadful, by the way. Absolutely exhausted."

"Well thank you very much for that, Andy, you old tosser." There was absolutely no point in taking offence, especially since Tom knew Andrew was entirely correct. The past few months since his father's death had been miserable, with distributors and clients jumping ship left and right— most were bringing their business to the ever-growing monster that was Red Drake Publishing Group, which was a particularly bitter twist of the knife sticking from Tom's back. Rufus Drake was an amoral snake of a man, who'd bought out Durin & Sons from Tom's grandfather for an embarrassingly paltry sum years before, using strong-arm tactics and underhanded bullshit to force their once well-respected, proud family business to crumble like wet sand.

Tom still held on to a kernel of resentment that his grandfather hadn't fought harder, hadn't _won _against the enemy, but there was only so much anger he could maintain for an old man whose heart had failed not even a month after ignobly losing his livelihood and his legacy. No, it was much more effective to focus his anger at the smarmy prick who'd bought them out, and who now sat swigging lavish scotch in Tom's grandfather's office while sending utter drivel through his presses.

Tom's father hadn't had a mind for the business of books, not really, but their attempts to rebuild a smaller, independent publishing house again had done better than anyone had expected. Even with Drake snatching up potential markets and choice manuscripts, Oakenshield Press had been holding its own for nearly a decade, until a tragic mix of depression, medication, and whiskey had overcome Mr. T. Durin Senior just a few months earlier. Tom may have been running the company alone in all but name since the beginning, but something about his father's death had prompted a surge in Drake's subverting manoeuvres.

"I am simply stating a fact, my dear man." Setting his cup and saucer carefully on the arm of the bench, Andrew turned, regarding Tom with those steady, surprisingly sober bright blue eyes. "And on that note, I find myself in the rather pleasing position of offering you a prime opportunity to improve your current fortunes. An aspiring author I've taken under my wing, and who is looking for the right publishing house for his first novel— a truly fantastic piece of literature, as well."

There were several things wrong with Andrew's idea of a _prime opportunity_, but Tom decided to address the two most glaring issues, to begin. "Right," he said, taking another small sip of his coffee. It wasn't dreadful, and he needed the fortification. "First, when exactly did you become a literary agent? And second, do you honestly think you've found a first novel from some unknown, good enough to warrant being picky about publishers?"

"If I may answer in reverse of the asking: yes, and last Tuesday."

"Damn it, Andrew, this is my _life_, not some whim—"

"My faith in Mr. Baggins' skill," Andrew interrupted smoothly, his gaze still twinkling. "Is hardly a whim. It is an observation of measurable fact: his prose is clean, his narrative compelling, and his book is brilliant."

"Baggins?" For an instant, the world seemed to narrow; that name had been bandied about for months, but beyond rumours of having found the next Rowling or Pratchett, no one in the industry had anything concrete to show for all the chatter. "William Baggins? You... How in the hell..."

Andrew's smile broadened, and his next smoke ring was even more audacious than the last. Tom wondered if this entire conversation might simply be the product of an addled brain and a contact high, but that was a risk he had to take.

"Well how about it, Tom? Would you like to meet him?"

* * *

Mr. Baggins, thankfully, seemed a bit less liberal than Andrew in his interpretation of how best to meet over drinks. At the very least, he came inside the restaurant.

Andrew's description had been sufficient to recognize the man— a riot of honey brown curls, short in stature, a warmly well-favoured face with expressive features— but it hadn't quite been enough to prepare Tom for the sharp, almost painful tug in his gut at the sight of the man. They had never met before, to the best of Tom's recollection, but there was something eerily and inexplicably familiar about him all the same.

The hair brushing his collar also served to remind Tom that he was due for a trim himself; he'd lost the rebellious ponytail of his early twenties when he'd lost his grandfather, and shortly after that he'd gained his first grey hairs. It wasn't the worst trade imaginable; Tom had been assured that a bit of dappling made him look distinguished, though whether or not his nephews could be trusted not to take the piss was another matter entirely.

A dinner meeting at a small bistro on the other side of the city, miles away from the Drake's offices, still wasn't quite circumspect enough for Tom to entirely relax, and then catching sight of his potential author from across the room hit him like a punch to the chest. A good beginning for his best hope of salvation, to be sure.

Mr. Baggins seemed to recognize him as well (Tom didn't dare wonder how Andrew might have described him to the other man_; _the word _grim_ had likely been a favourite), if his wide smile and wave were any indication. When Baggins approached the table, Tom stood, offering a hand.

"Mr. Baggins," he said, only barely a question, and received a chuckle and a gentle but steady handshake in return.

"Ah, just William. Mr. Thorton Durin, I presume?" After thirty-six years, Tom managed not to winch at that awkward mouthful.

"Please—" Motioning for Baggins to sit, Tom followed suit, calling up one of his more charming smiles as the waiter approached with menus in hand. "Call me Tom. Thorton is an old family name, and one I'm much less sentimental about than my father was."

Realizing his mistake the moment Baggins' cheerful expression dropped in sympathy, Tom could have slapped himself. "Yes, well. My, ah, condolences about his loss."

"Thank you." Rallying from that awkwardness while Baggins ordered a drink, Tom tried to ignore the niggling itch in the back of his brain that insisted something was odd about the man across the table. It wasn't simply the vibe of an eccentric author— Baggins' hair was a bit shaggy, but he seemed reasonably coherent, his clothes were well-kept and natty, and he hadn't started the meeting by pulling a taxidermied house cat out of his leather satchel and demanding a saucer of cream and a dozen chocolate Hobnobs. That alone meant he wasn't the most bizarre writer Tom had ever met.

"So, Andy tells me you're a good friend," Baggins began the moment the waiter had slipped off, which actually saved Tom the trouble of finding a better topic than dead relatives. "And he speaks quite well of you, by the way. Personally and professionally."

"He's too kind." Surprisingly kind, actually, unless Baggins was trying to be polite. Andrew Grey was rarely one to worry about avoiding hard feelings when the truth would do better, and he was as secure in his own wisdom as he was meddlesome. "Though I'm sure the praise he's heaping on your work is well-deserved."

With one humble dip of his curly head and a crooked smile, Baggins succeeded in sending Tom's brain off again on some dizzying sort of deja vu. It had been two bloody days since his meeting with Andrew; surely he couldn't still be high.

"Oh, let's at least get through starters before I've got to natter on about that, Tom. I'm famished, and the stuffed mushrooms sound delicious."

* * *

" —and I'm surprised none of us lost fingers, with Andy setting off those spectacular fireworks he used to do... Shit, I thought my father was going to have a stroke before the end of that summer, I swear, but Mum just laughed and told him she liked the green sparklers best!"

Ordering the second bottle of wine had either been an unforgivable mistake, or the best decision of Tom's life to date; he wasn't entirely sober enough to decide which. It hardly helped that Baggins was pink cheeked and giggling as they swapped Andrew Grey stories over tiramisu, and the sight of the handsome little man so chuffed was both painfully adorable and dangerously approaching fuckable.

It was good for business that they were getting on so well, though, which was admittedly a poor excuse for pouring more wine, but it was the best Tom could come up with at the moment.

"Oh god," Tom chuckled, possibly a bit too husky, but that was largely due to the wine. Probably. "The _fireworks_. Bill, honestly, he nearly set a cousin of mine on fire with those..."

The silence from the other side of the table was jarring enough to bring Tom up short, despite the wooliness permeating his brain. Baggins wasn't giggling anymore, just staring ever so slightly slack-jawed at Tom, with wide eyes turned deep stormy blue in the dim light of the restaurant. It took a moment too long for Tom to realize what he'd said, and by that time the other man had already starting speaking.

"I, er... That was a bit strange. I haven't been called Bill in years, but you—"

No matter how right the name had felt in his mouth, Tom was still wise enough to backpedal. "Sorry. Sorry, William—"

"No, no, Bill is fine." Shutting up, stopping the cycle of interruption before it could get any more ridiculous, Tom watched as a speculating sort of expression wandered over Baggins' face. If he hadn't known better, and by this point it was honestly debatable whether or not he _did_, Tom would have sworn the other man was not-so-subtly checking him out.

Blinking, glancing up from what was almost certainly a drunkenly protracted study of the cut of Tom's charcoal suit jacket, Baggins had easily gained back his previous flush, and more pinkness besides. "It's more than fine," he said, voice sounding equal parts surprised and warmly curious, then cleared his throat. "I mean, people are always mistaking me for Prince William anyway. Very annoying, you can imagine."

The tension didn't fade entirely, but Tom felt as though it was being replaced by a different, much more pleasant sort. That was an unexpected development— Tom had always made a point to keep his private life as separate from his work as possible, despite the fact that Oakenshield was a family business, with cousins and nephews forever underfoot. It also took up such a huge portion of his time to keep them afloat that dating and socializing had taken a backseat for quite a while, but he had never, _never_ slept with a prospective author.

Granted, he'd never wanted to sleep with anyone quite so fervently as he did this man at this precise moment, but that was beside the point. Wasn't it?

Less than an arm's length away after their shuffling closer as they ate and spoke, Baggins was smiling again, with an shrewdness to his expression that hadn't been there before. Tom felt his stomach lurch; it was actually a bit alarming that this virtual stranger could have such a visceral effect on him so soon in their acquaintance. Alarming, but also very, very hot. "So, what is it, Tom? You know another Bill?"

"The opposite, actually." They'd been flirting a bit, just a usual teasing back-and-forth, for over three hours and two bottles of wine. Now, for some reason Tom couldn't quite pinpoint, the air seemed to be changing, crackling between them. In the face of that, surely he could be forgiven if his mouth ran away with him. "I had a boyfriend named William a number of years back. He was a complete tit."

Baggins— _Bill_ laughed at that unintended admission, with a earnest joy that warmed Tom down to his toes. "Well, I can't say I've ever dated a Thorton... nor a Tom, come to think of it. One of those seems less surprising than the other."

_Would you like to_, was something he would absolutely not allow himself to say, no matter how much pinot noir he guzzled. But then, as it turned out, he didn't actually have to trot out the abysmal pick-up lines.

"Tom?" Bill's fingers were tapping along the edge of his plate, and that tiny nervous tick was enough to put Tom back on more even ground, if only for a moment. His voice had gone quiet enough that Tom found himself leaning closer to hear. "Can I just ask... Which would be more hideously presumptuous and inappropriate of me right now: asking you to take me home, or inviting you back to my hotel room?"

And there went _even ground,_ shot straight to hell, replaced swiftly by pure white heat curling up Tom's spine.

_Hot as dragon's fire_.

Shaking away all unexpected thoughts of dragons (where in the world had _that_ come from?), as well as all sensible doubts, Tom let his hand stray over to slowly curl over Bill's wrist, ever so gently. Under the neatly pressed, sage green shirt cuff, Bill's fair skin was almost sinfully warm and soft.

"I do have a very nice bed at my flat." They were both leaning in now, near enough that Tom could smell the lingering sweetness of tiramisu, and a faintly earthy scent, like fresh grass and honey. He managed, just barely, not to press his nose into the side of Bill's throat in the middle of the restaurant. "And I have been known to make fantastic waffles for breakfast, given the proper incentive."

"Well, that settles it." There was an audible clicking sound as Bill swallowed, and twin spots of colour burning high on his cheeks. Tom wanted to lick them, to discover if they were as hot as they looked, then lick a few other places to compare. "Why didn't you just say _waffles_ in the first place?"

* * *

"Just— oh _god_— just to be clear—" They'd actually held hands in the cab, which had felt astonishingly intimate and comfortable despite the growing sensation of sitting on a tinderbox set to light, and Tom used that grip to push Bill against the wall of his entryway the moment the flat door locked behind them. He then set about taking Bill apart, piece by piece, starting with a deep, utterly filthy kiss that migrated to the hollow of Bill's throat in short order.

_Mine, to take, to have, to claim. Earned and kept, mine, my treasure, my own_—

"To be clear," Bill panted again, hands clenched around Tom's shoulders, urging more with every tug. The scrape of Tom's beard against his own bare neck elicited a pleased hiss, and Tom tucked that information away for further exploration. "Because I'm a bit pissed and horny as hell— this is in no way a legally binding or even implicit agreement about the book, all right?"

"You may be hot shit, Baggins—" Shrugging out of his jacket, which Bill had already yanked halfway down his arms, Tom jerked enough fiddly buttons open to suck hard against a gorgeously smooth collarbone, drinking in the ragged moan that caused. Hands clawed at his tie, dragging the knot loose and tossing it aside, and then Bill's fingers were buried under his collar, raising gooseflesh as they pinched and scratched. He bit at the man's neck and jaw in return, grinning. "In more ways than one, but I'm not prostituting myself for your damned book."

"It _is_ a really good book, though," Bill said, laughing, and Tom kissed him hard.

Tom had been told on more than one occasion that he had the sort of presence that filled a room, which was lucky in most situations, given that his actual height left something to be desired. Scarcely five-foot-seven, Tom had very rarely slept with anyone who actually made him feel tall, but Bill was even more vertically challenged. In fact, he was shorter as well as slighter, and Tom was quickly discovering that having perhaps three inches and at least two stone of weight over the other man was more than a little attractive.

_Such a sweet little thing, sweet and so strong, my fierce hobbit_—

Their hips slotted together without much effort, and the friction was delicious, sending Tom breathing harshly against Bill's ear as they rutted together, still in their damned trousers.

"That's it, there, _yes—_ you lovely thing, beautiful creature—" He was muttering nonsense already, getting carried away too quickly, but Bill didn't seem to mind. When nimble hands stole down between them, unzipping trousers and shoving pants aside, Tom thrust forward so hard that his coatrack trembled beside them. The feel of Bill's cock against his own, hot and gorgeously hard, had Tom seeking out that wicked mouth again, curling their tongues together between wet breaths and groans.

"More Tom, _more_—" The name, his own name, rang so false in that desperate, breathy voice that it nearly stopped him cold, but then Bill's hand wrapped around them both, slicking precome before squeezing, twisting, pumping, and Tom had him lifted up by the thighs an instant later. Legs wrapped tightly around Tom's waist, and their trousers were still entirely in the way, but all that mattered was _more_.

"More, yes... I'm going to have you—" Bill's thumb stroked over their bumping cock heads, his fingers pressing them snugly together and flaring the fire in Tom's belly, ever inch of him pulsing all the hotter. Tom couldn't help but grind his hips forward, the world narrowing to just this, with sweat and breath mingling and sensation spiking, rucking their shirts up farther and fucking sharply against a sweet, bare stomach. "I'll have you and keep you, every part... give me, give me everything— mine, _my own_—"

_Mine, mine, my own, my Bilbo, always mine, forever __**mine**_—

There was a gasp pressed against his cheek, a beautifully needy whine, and then slickness ran hot over his cock as Bilbo's hips stuttered, tense as a drawn bow.

"_Mine_—" He snarled the word, desperate to own, to lay claim again, and arched into the aching pleasure of a familiar hand tangling in the hair at his nape. Blunt nails scratched across his scalp, his name was breathed out against his ear, that beloved voice shuddering with wonder, with such affection, and Thorin was flying apart with a triumphant roar.

"Thorin?" That voice quivering with uncertainty, _Bilbo's voice_, cut through his lethargy before he'd even caught his breath, their hearts still hammering together. "Thorin, please, what... What is going on?"

_Tom Durin, Thorton Durin, his name_—

_Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, the King Under the Mountain_—

The weakness in his knees wasn't entirely due to the tendrils of pleasure still thrumming through his nerves, and Thorin braced an arm against the wall before sliding them both down to the floor, keeping the halfling (_human, human man, both of them_) drawn close enough to straddle his thighs.

"Bilbo—" He did not know the body trembling beneath his hands, not as completely he knew the spirit inside it, but it was agonizingly close to the keen, vibrant lover suddenly bursting to life in his memory. The shape was similar, but the details were new— larger everywhere, smoother in places, rougher in others, a lack of familiar scars. Still, Thorin knew Bilbo Baggins down to his very bones, or even deeper than that. At that moment he held the hobbit tightly to his chest, fighting against the maelstrom raging in his mind. "Bilbo Baggins... I know you, halfling, whatever skin you wear."

"You, you died..." Murmured words, broken by hiccoughing breaths and kisses pressed against his brow, Thorin hid his own stinging eyes in the curve of his lover's shoulder. He remembered the vicious agony of orcish swords piercing his sides, splitting him open and leaving him cold. He remembered a tiny hand gripping his own, clinging hard and desperate as the world faded to tears and blackness, and then the void that followed. "You died, and I lingered so long, mourned so long... _Thorin_. How is this possible?"

A fine question, but neither the dwarven king nor the human man vying for dominance inside Thorin's skull had an answer. "I have no idea." He huffed out an astonished, half-mad laugh, squeezing Bilbo hard enough to make the hobbit squeak. "But here we are."

"Here we are," Bilbo repeated a moment later, breathless, and pulled Thorin up into a bruisingly firm kiss.

END


	2. A Tecla Pearl (Pt1)

_AN: I blame you folks, with your wonderful reviews and completely unanticipated enjoyment of Bran' New Suit. I had no intention of writing one more word of this AU; I thought I was content to let the little insistent details float around in my brain until they withered and died. And I really didn't want to think up modern names for all those damned dwarves._

_Oops, look what happened. More of this, nearly twice as long, and so utterly self-indulgent of my crazy AU fetish, you have no idea. Holy shit, I want to hug you all so hard, and then headbutt you._

_A warning before you go any further: there's a dragon that walks like a man in this story, or possibly just a man who reminds us all of a dragon, and I've written him to look a bit like a certain actor. This is not Smauglock (though I personally have no problem with fandom overlap)— these are characters who aren't human converted into human-shapes, with at least vague resemblance to their former selves mixed with the actors who play them._

* * *

"I've missed this face." Fingers carded through his beard, and Thorin allowed himself to revel in the sensation, arching towards it like a cat. His flat was cool even without the air conditioning turned on, the ceiling fan spinning lazily above them, but that made the warmth under his duvet seem even cosier.

Lying close enough to share a pillow, Bilbo hadn't stopped smiling for hours, even when tears had streaked across his blotchy red cheeks. Neither of them had survived that night with entirely dry eyes, but now, curled together in the soft glow of Thorin's bedside lamp, things had settled into peaceful fellowship.

Sliding a thumb over one of Thorin's cheekbones, Bilbo leaned in for a soft, fleeting kiss before resting their foreheads together, one hand still cupping Thorin's jaw. "God, how I've missed you."

There was nothing he could say, nothing he had not tried and failed to say earlier in the evening— it would take more than one night of desperate reunion for Thorin to free himself of the guilt that sat cold in his gut. Bilbo had lived a life without him, more than eighty years with his memory, while Thorin hadn't suffered the ache of a lost love until the hobbit was back in his arms.

Not a hobbit now, though; William Baggins was a man, much the same as Tom Durin. The finer details were still jagged and jarring, like bits of glass prodding at his brain if he thought about them too closely, but lines had begun blurring between the two lifetimes shoehorned into Thorin's skull. It was disorienting, but at least it was better than feeling like a stranger in his own skin, as he had with orgasm tearing through him and Bilbo panting into his hair. He was Tom as much as he was Thorin, whatever the hell that meant.

He knew that the asparagus fern in his office appreciated a splash of cold tea in its water once a week, and precisely how to walk the line between demanding and ingratiating when dealing with every individual print shop in his address book. He also knew the feeling of orc flesh giving way under the weight of a good dwarven blade, and the magnificent view the sun made rising over the distant Iron Hills. He remembered seeing his grandfather's severed head rolling towards him across a muddy battlefield; he remembered finding his grandfather slumped over the desk in his study, flesh gone waxy white and already cold.

He knew Khuzdul better than the French he'd taken in university, and the bitter-sharp tang of steel heated red hot was as vivid in Thorin's mind as the heady scent of his favourite espresso, brewed in the absolutely convoluted machine his nephews had bought him last Christmas. His nephews, whose bodies he'd seen bloodied and and broken on the steps of Erebor, and who currently shared a small, comfortable flat two streets away from the Oakenshield office.

"Thorin?" Bilbo's thumb was stroking his cheek again, wiping gently beneath his eye, and Thorin took a deep, steadying breath.

"Come here," he said, rather than continue to delve into the deep and the darkness; Bilbo didn't resist being rolled onto his back, sighing happily as Thorin's weight settled over him. Mussed curls spilled across the golden yellow pillowcase, and warm thighs parted, welcoming Thorin to cradle close against the luxuriant, slightly podgy curve of his stomach.

Kissing Bilbo was a fine way to temporarily banish old ghosts, Thorin had discovered, and luckily enough it was a remedy he was eager to repeat as much as necessary.

"You are a gorgeous little thing, here in my bed." Sliding his hands slowly up Bilbo's sides, mapping every inch of smooth skin he could reach, Thorin licked his way into the furnace of that tempting mouth. Hips rolled up against him, grinding slow and sinful as Thorin planted his knees for more leverage, and Bilbo's delighted groan vibrated through them both. Fingers moved from his jaw to his shoulders, kneading muscle and teasing up to his nape; this was a truly lovely way to set madness aside for a moment.

* * *

It was better than any dream he could imagine, to wake cocooned in warmth, with his muscles aching with a well-earned soreness, his nose buried in soft curls, and his cock nestled against the plush curve of Bilbo's arse. Shifting just a bit, tightening his arm around the body curled against him, Thorin nuzzled a lazy line of kisses over Bilbo's shoulder and let himself drift back—

Then another chorus of knocks rapped against the front door, loud and jaunty, and Thorin realized why he'd woken in the first place. Knocking, rather than a buzz on the intercom, was just compelling enough to persuade him out of bed.

Bilbo groaned pitifully when Thorin attempted to extract himself; before he could even slip out from under the quilts, he found himself on the receiving end of a confused, bleary-eyed frown.

"Someone at the door," he said, answering Bilbo's wordless hum of inquiry, and pressed a brief kiss against the peach fuzz of the other man's cheek. Even in this life, Bilbo did not appear the type to worry overmuch about stubble, though he did have a fine dusting of dark blonde hair trailing down from his chest. Thorin had spent a great deal of time the night before exploring that golden trail, and all the sweet treasures hidden along it.

"Waffles," Bilbo rasped in return, managing such a hopeful little smile that Thorin couldn't help but laugh.

"Yes, all right, waffles it is." Pulling on a pair of pyjama trousers, Thorin tossed his warmer tartan dressing gown onto the duvet for Bilbo to make use of, shrugging on his grey silk robe instead. Another knock sounded, and he forcibly dragged his eyes away from the rumpled sight of his warm, comfortable blankets and the man lying in them, knotting his robe and padding out into the hall.

The lock was already turning by the time he made it to the door, and Thorin made a point of yanking it open with some force, startling his nephews enough that they both jumped back, yelping. There were few enough people with a key to his flat— precisely the sort of key clutched in Filip's hand.

"Jesus Christ!" Standing just behind his brother's shoulder, with an iPhone pressed against his ear, Kalle huffed a weak, breathless sort of laugh. "No, no we found him, still alive and all. Yeah, here, you talk to him—"

Levelling them both with a stern enough stare to send them ducking their heads like misbehaving children again, Thorin took the mobile Kalle held out without a word, glancing at the screen for a moment before lifting it to his own ear.

"Tom Durin," he said pleasantly enough for half-seven on a Saturday morning, while very purposefully standing firm in his doorway, not allowing the lads inside.

There was a part of him that wanted nothing more than to pull them both into a bone-creaking hug— alive, they were _alive_— but that would have raised far too many questions. It was best to fall back on ill-temper, which wasn't too difficult to dredge up, considering the warm, pliant man he'd just been bothered into leaving back in his bed.

"Well now, looks as though I owe Blaine a pint," said the deep, gruff voice rumbling from the phone. Deryn sounded more amused than put-out about the bet. "I was sure you'd had that heart attack you've been angling for, but my brother disagreed. You're not in the office." Thorin might have been surprised by the admission of such an off-colour wager, if Deryn Fundin had ever showed even a passing concern for delicacy or tact. Thinking of another dear old friend, one just as bald and boorish as Deryn, Thorin shook off the rush of memories that followed.

"It _is_ Saturday." If he sounded hoarse, Thorin assumed it would be blamed on sleep and annoyance, rather than the lump in his throat. Growing brave again, the lads had begun whispering to each other while shooting him curious glances. Another memory flickered into the fore of his mind, much more recent than slaughtering orcs and raising cups side by side with Dwalin son of Fundin— Bilbo, biting at the tendons in his neck while riding him hard into the mattress. That was enough to give Thorin a fairly good idea of what was so fascinating about the collar of his robe. "Anything wrong?"

"Not a thing, just that you've not taken a Saturday off in three years. And you weren't answering your mobile." The mobile that was set to vibrate and tucked into his jacket pocket— the jacket that was still crumpled on the floor in his entranceway, not too far from his bare feet. He was actually standing on the very nice blue and lavender striped tie that Bilbo had yanked off him the night before; of course the lads noticed it, with Filip elbowing his brother knowingly, and both of them grinning like loons.

"I'm taking one off today. If you need to get in touch, call." There was a bark of laughter through the phone, and Thorin knew he'd be hearing about this for weeks, if not longer. Any ribbing he suffered was more than worth it.

"Right," Deryn chuckled, a noise rather like gravel under boots. "Put the lad back on, would you?"

Hanging up would do absolutely no good; Thorin could easily guess what was about to happen, and he wouldn't delay the inevitable. He passed the phone back to Kalle without argument, bracing himself for what was to come. Snatching the phone with an amused little smirk, Kalle turned away and chattered into it, muffling his words with one cupped hand. Thorin heard _lovebite_ and _shagged out_, then stopped listening.

"I'm not inviting you in," he said to Filip, jerking one thumb down the corridor towards the lift. "I don't want to see either of you until Monday."

Filip, the smug little shit, stuffed his hands into his jeans' pockets and rocked on his heels. "Big weekend plans, Uncle?" When Thorin merely lifted his brows at the question, Filip's smile broadened, and he made a show of briefly peeking around Thorin's shoulder. "Anyone we know?"

_Yes, you remember our burglar, don't you Fili? Kili? You remember—_

"No." It wasn't a terribly odd question, all things considered; his nephews knew how rarely he dated, and how much of a priority Oakenshield was for their uncle. For him to take a day off because of a shag was unheard of, a shift in the foundations of the world, though judging by the matching glints in their eyes, the lads seemed to approve. "Now, piss off, the pair of you."

"Quick as lightning," Filip said, clapping his brother on the back. Kalle, who was just stuffing his mobile back in the pocket of his hoodie, favoured Thorin with a toothy smile and added: "As if we were never here."

"If only," Thorin muttered as he closed the door, then turned the deadbolt and fastened the chain for good measure.

Picking up his tie and his jacket, Thorin fished his mobile out of the latter as he walked towards the kitchen, and slung his rumpled clothes over the back of a chair. He'd missed nine calls— three from Deryn, four from Blaine, and two from Kalle— and thirty-eight texts. Flipping silent mode off, Thorin ignored the bulk of the messages for the moment, sending only a single text before grabbing the waffle iron from its cupboard and gathering the proper ingredients.

The timer was set for the first batch of waffles and the kettle was moments away from boiling when Bilbo padded out of the bedroom, wrapped in Black Watch tartan and looking altogether self-satisfied. When he crowded Thorin against the sink and stretched up for a kiss, he tasted of cinnamon— he'd found the toothpaste, apparently, and made Thorin all to aware of his own somewhat stale breath.

"That was my nephews at the door." Squeezing his hands around Bilbo's hips for one covetous moment, earning himself a tempting wriggle for his trouble, Thorin pulled away long enough to fill the teapot and set it to steep. No need to bother with coffee just yet; such a lazy morning as he had planned called for tea. "Filip and Kalle."

"Did you— Filip and Kalle?" Propping elbows on the countertop, Bilbo dropped his head into his hands. "This is astonishing and it's— it's _absurd_. I can't think about it anymore until after breakfast, or my head may just pop off. God, I need tea."

Humming in agreement, Thorin fetched down plates and silverware, and a pair of mugs— he'd never bothered to keep proper teacups. It only took Bilbo a moment to rally enough for manners to overcome confusion, and Thorin was left to put down a second batch of waffles while Bilbo set everything on the table. It felt so astonishingly domestic, even if it was utter lunacy.

Despite Deryn's ribbing, Thorin was all too aware of his own health, and had been even before his father's final decline— he would not give Rufus Drake the satisfaction of having destroyed three generation of Durin men, even indirectly. Bilbo seemed more than happy to reap the benefits of a refrigerator well-stocked with fresh berries and fruit, piling his waffles and staining his lips with dark juice.

Before Thorin could consider the strength of his kitchen table too closely— whether it could, for example, be trusted to hold the weight of one former hobbit through some vigorous exploration of the taste of blueberries and warm syrup on bare skin— his mobile chirped in the pocket of his robe.

Glancing at the screen, Thorin felt one corner of his mouth lift, nearly without his permission. The fact that he'd received a reply at all was telling, but telling of what, he wasn't exactly sure. He slid the phone across the table without explanation, and Bilbo's startled laugh shortly thereafter was not at all surprising.

**You're a wizard**, read the text he'd sent to Andrew that morning; **so glad the meeting went well**, was the reply, six words that somehow managed to utterly drip with self-satisfied delight even without the benefit of tone or inflection.

"If anyone knows, beyond us," Bilbo said, pushing the phone back over. "It's Andrew, though good luck getting a straight answer if he does. Clever, crafty bastard he is."

"As he's always been," Thorin agreed, absently licking a bit of stray syrup off one thumb as he considered whether to text Andrew again, or perhaps call the man—

He wasn't quite prepared for a lapful of Bilbo, who was abruptly shoving his chair out just enough to squeeze between him and the table, but it was hardly an unpleasant surprise.

"Well, hello," Bilbo said cheerily, then lifted Thorin's hand and suckled at his still-damp thumb, drawing it deep over his velvet-soft tongue until not even the memory of syrup remained. Thorin's cock stirred immediately, stiffening with both interest and jealously at the attention being laved over such an innocuous part of his anatomy. It was better than being a teenager again, even if his muscles were tender. A warm hand slipped inside his robe, pushing silk aside, and Thorin rumbled a pleased sort of noise at the sensation, hips shifting.

Bilbo had told him much earlier that morning, while they both lay sated and panting in the quiet hours before dawn, that he had every intention of making up for decades of lost time. Then, as now, Thorin couldn't think of any objections.

* * *

"So you don't actually expect them to recognize me?" Holding his umbrella over both of them to block out the grey drizzle, while Bilbo balanced a pair of takeout cups (a black coffee and an Earl Grey), Thorin shook his head and kept their pace comfortable but quick. His briefcase, hanging from one shoulder on its longer strap, knocked gently against his hip.

"I really don't, no." It was Monday morning, early enough that Bilbo had grumbled good-naturedly until Thorin agreed that a shared shower would save time (it had, in fact, wasted it; he wasn't going to be late, but it was a close thing). Taking Bilbo to the office didn't precisely feel like a horrific mistake, especially since it wasn't for purely personal reasons, but Thorin worried about the depth of the other man's expectations. "I've known most of them for years, some since I was a boy, and I've only just started piecing together memories another life. They don't... tug on my brain like you do."

"You say the sweetest things." A head bumped his shoulder, an affectionate nudge, and a glance over confirmed that Bilbo was smiling at him playfully. "This is going to be quite strange, I've no doubt."

"Because it's been so very normal until now." They were just coming up in front of Oakenshield, which filled every nook and cranny of what had been an old piano repair and music shop in one of the less-than-posh but still relatively clean areas of the city. After the family had been evicted from the tall granite office that had been home to Durin & Sons since the Industrial Revolution, establishing a new location had been a delicate balance of weighing cost against client comfort.

It had taken time, but the place eventually polished up quite nicely, and the large shop windows brightened the small foyer (with comfortable seating for appointments to wait, and Donald's administrative desk front and centre). Pushing the door open, ushering Bilbo inside as he shook off his umbrella, Thorin took one final centring breath before following.

"Good morning!" Donald had his best false smile plastered on, though it faltered into something less toothy when he caught sight of Thorin. "Ah, Mr. Durin, good morning."

"Good morning." Dropping his dripping brolly in the stand by the door, Thorin took his coffee from Bilbo with a grateful nod. "Bill, this is Donald Durin, our receptionist, among other things. Donald, Bill Baggins."

"Oh, Mr. Baggins—" Everyone in the Oakenshield office had heard the murmurs about William Baggins the mysterious author, but there wasn't a hint of the eerie sort of recognition that had swept over Thorin. Between the enthusiastic handshake and the curious glances, Donald appeared to have made only the obvious connection. "A pleasure, really, truly. Welcome to Oakenshield Press."

The moment Bilbo had blurted out thanks, Thorin cut in again, unwilling to linger when there was work that needed doing. "Donald, I'll be in with Bill most of the morning, but I'll still take calls. Any messages?"

There were, of course, a pile of pink slips of paper waiting for him already, each scrawled with a name and number (and, if he was lucky, a summary of the actual message). Thorin took them all, not bothering to flick through at the moment, then proceeded to herd Bilbo deeper into the office without any further conversation.

"That was Dori," Bilbo muttered softly in his ear. Most of the individual offices had their doors open this early in the day, before the phone calls and meetings began in earnest, and Thorin felt Bilbo tense beside him as they walked past. "Are Ori and Nori... wait, is that Balin? My god, they look different, so human, but I just _know_—"

"There you are." Looming like a great granite monolith, Deryn took up most of Thorin's office door; his dark green button-down pulled tight around thick arms, crossed over his chest, and the glossy top of his bald head nearly brushed the lintel. "Don't you look well-rested."

It was patently unfair, Thorin realized suddenly, that of all these seemingly reborn dwarves, _he_ was the only one nearly as short-arsed as he'd been. Even young Oliver— _Ori—_ stood a few inches taller, and bloody Deryn towered over him by more than half a foot.

"Morning, Deryn." Resisting the urge to shoulder past, though Deryn would likely let him, Thorin motioned toward Bilbo with his coffee. "Deryn Fundin, this is Bill Baggins. Bill, Deryn's our senior editor, and a vicious bastard with a red pen. His brother Blaine is our acquisitions editor."

"Baggins, did you say?" Putting that thunderstruck look on Deryn's face, if only for a moment, might have been one of the highlights of Thorin's day... except his day had started with a long, luxurious blowjob in the shower before being fucked hard against the slick tiles, so things were already skewed a bit past normal. "Well now, not a myth after all. Good to meet you."

Watching Bilbo's hand be utterly consumed in Deryn's massive paw, Thorin glanced around at the other office doors along the curving corridor; he was relieved at the lack of peering, curious faces. Oliver was puttering around the small kitchenette in the centre of the u-shape, completely engrossed in fixing a cup of tea, but he perked up at the name _Baggins_. He'd already been sketching that morning, if the smudge of dark ink on his cheek and the side of his little finger was any clue— possibly the illustrations for their latest small batch custom order, hand-bound. Thorin had already approved the preliminary proofs.

"—sure you and Tom have a lot to talk about." Tuning back in at the sound of his name, Thorin turned to find Deryn having moved out of the way, allowing Bilbo to slip into the office. When Thorin attempted to follow, a massive hand on his chest stymied his progress.

"Tell me," Deryn rumbled very quietly, leaning close. "That you didn't spend your weekend shagging that author."

Thorin didn't answer verbally, simply levelled a steely hard stare, and the other man backed off with palms raised. "Right." Deryn huffed a growling breath, displeased but not willing to push. "Your business. Fuck's sake."

"It is, yes." Stepping into the dark panelled refuge of his office, Thorin pushed the door shut pointedly, then took a deep breath. So far, things were going about how he had expected. Setting down his briefcase and coffee, he shrugged off his overcoat and draped it over one of the clothes hangers on the back of his door. "Bilbo, you coat?"

"Hm?" Shaking his head a bit, as though clearing it, Bilbo turned from his study of the leggy asparagus fern spilling greenery over the edge of the steel filing cabinet. After a moment's pause, he stripped himself free of his short, brick-red trench and passed it over. "Oh yes, of course, thank you. Your plant needs more light, by the way."

Clever family investments and a comfortable (though not excessive) amount of old money meant that William Baggins had never needed a proper job, though he did take a few hours a week at a flower shop and greenhouse in his village. A love of things that grow... Thorin recalled a certain fussy hobbit had been surprisingly content with soil under his nails, if it was to the benefit of something green.

"You should put it out front," Bilbo continued, stroking a gentle hand over the soft needles and absently sipping his tea. "Nearer the windows. In here, maybe a pothos... yes, that would be lovely."

They had made a stop at Bilbo's hotel Saturday afternoon, picking up his bags and cancelling the remainder of his reservation. With enough clothes for a week at his disposal, and an unfortunate need to wear more than a pair of Thorin's pyjama trousers slung low on his hips if they were going out in public, Bilbo had put together dark russet trousers and a mossy green jumper. The white collared shirt beneath did a fine job at hiding any marks Thorin may have left low on his neck, including a frankly indecent amount of beard burn (his face, thankfully, had weathered the weekend with only a bit of healthy looking pinkness). Thorin himself wasn't quite so lucky— one purplish set of toothmarks peeked out at his nape, glaringly visible just below his hairline, and the slight twinge of the bruise brushing against his own starched collar was sinfully distracting.

Not quite as distracting as the lingering ache in his arse, but Thorin could not afford to think about that for even a moment, or he'd be hard-pressed not to have Bilbo bent over his desk.

"No, no, stop that." Bilbo waved a hand, as if swatting at a fly; Thorin blinked. "Thorin, stop _smouldering_ over there as though you want to jump me, or I can't promise we won't end up having sex in your office. I'm terrible at self-denial."

Swallowing hard, Thorin moved around to put the desk between them, taking a long drink of his coffee as he dropped into his chair. "Sit, please. We actually do have business, you tempting little creature."

"The book," Bilbo said, taking the offered seat. The rain had put a bit of frizz in his curls, making them look perpetually ruffled.

"The book," Thorin agreed, ignoring the urge to ruffle those curls any further. "And Red Drake."


	3. A Tecla Pearl (Pt2)

Checking his watch again, Thorin bit into the last sliver of his mint and swallowed the pieces, making certain every bit of the sweet was out of his mouth as he started off down the block towards the Red Drake office. Bilbo's meeting had been scheduled for one o'clock, and it was now twenty past— while keeping a person waiting was exactly the sort of petty power-play that would get Drake's rocks off, William Baggins appearing out of the blue would be too golden an opportunity to risk mucking about.

The sign plastered above the main doors of the building was painfully garish: great, sweeping chrome letters, underscored by a thin, stylized dragon, and the entire thing backlit with a halo of red neon. It was miles away from the crisp hand-painted copperplate Thorin remembered, but at least the city had refused Drake's petitions to remodel the entire building into a frosted glass monstrosity.

The dark hardwood floor of the main lobby had been carpeted over in ruby red, with a plush pile that was completely ridiculous in an office setting, but of course Drake would have it cleaned pristinely. The receptionist was a young, gorgeous woman with tight, natural curls cropped close to her head, a bluetooth earpiece, and not a single speck of lipstick on her brilliantly white teeth when she smiled at his approach.

"Good afternoon, sir, and welcome to Red Drake Publishing. How may I help you today?"

Standing tall but not stiffly, Thorin offered the woman (_Nina_, according to her slim black name tag) a disarmingly charming smile of his own. "If anyone can, Nina, I'm quite sure it will be you. Thorton Durin, of Oakenshield Press— I'd very much like to see Mr. Drake."

Nina's expression faltered at his name, but she rallied with aplomb; Thorin could see her hand stray subtly toward her intercom, but her voice was steady and pleasant. "Of course, Mr. Durin. Is Mr. Drake expecting you, sir?"

"No, he's certainly not." Holding his arms out wide, Thorin took a single step back from the desk. "Have security frisk me, if you like, but Drake will want to see me, I promise you that. I have an offer."

Nina was obviously torn, but after a few tense moments she nodded once, just the smallest twitch of her elegant head, and tapped her earpiece. "One moment, please. I'll have someone show you up."

* * *

The red carpet was everywhere, plastered through every corridor, and the two strapping security guards keeping tight to Thorin's heels nearly made Deryn seem like a weedy boy in comparison. Of course Thorin didn't need a guide to show him the way to his own grandfather's office, but he wasn't at all surprised about the escort. If Rufus Drake was ever admitted to the Oakenshield office (and they all weren't too overwhelmed by the flocks of flying pigs), the bastard wouldn't be permitted to take a piss without someone breathing down his neck, let alone wander about.

Drake's PA, Sophia, was just as classically beautiful as Nina, with huge, chocolate brown eyes and strawberry blonde hair held back in a sleek ponytail. The blood red varnish on her fingernails matched the carpet perfectly, as did the crimson patent of her razor sharp pumps, and her white sheath dress seemed expertly tailored. She was likely brilliant as well— Rufus Drake did not abide imperfection, and his personal staff doubtlessly consisted of a slew of bright young things who could model for Vogue in their spare time.

"May I get you a beverage, Mr. Durin?" Unlike Nina, Sophia didn't bother putting on any sort of false welcome for him, beyond crisp, efficient courtesy. Sitting in a blocky, black leather chair, Thorin continued flipping through a current copy of _The Book Collector_ that he'd found on the glass coffee table.

"No, thank you. I'm fine." As Thorin hoped he would, Drake seemed to have left explicitly strict instructions not to be interrupted during his meeting with Bilbo, with no room for exceptions. Coolly discomforted by the situation, Sophia kept flickering glances at the shut office door, emblazoned _Rufus S. Drake, CEO, President, Sole Proprietor_. Thorin was mildly surprised the nameplate didn't have _God_ tacked on the end, but perhaps they had run out of room.

Thorin remembered the chunky oak desk that once stood in the space Sophia's glass and chrome workstation now dominated. His grandfather's secretary, Evelyn, had always kept her top drawer full of boiled sweets and Quality Street chocolates, often slipped to young Durin children. There was an sinuously shaped white bowl on the corner of Sophia's desk, filled with gleaming gold Jordan almonds.

Eventually, after what felt like eons in absolute silence (even the numberless wall clock kept time without a single audible tick), the door to Drake's office eased smoothly open, bringing voices with it.

"—consider my offer, really, William. A shining star such as yourself shouldn't settle for second—"

Thorin stood as Bilbo appeared, with Drake trailing close behind, one slender hand wrapped over Bilbo's shoulder. They both stopped short at the sight of Thorin, though Bilbo's expression was far more enthusiastic, shifting immediately from mildly uncomfortable to guilelessly pleased.

"Tom Durin." Drake, on the other hand, looked utterly murderous for an instant, before schooling his sharp face into perfectly placid indifference. "Isn't this a surprise."

Whip-thin and at least six feet tall, with almost aggressively angular features, Rufus Drake took pains to accentuate his trim figure with bespoke suits— today, it was a slim-cut black jacket, trousers, and waistcoat with a subtle red pinstripe, a snowy white shirt, gold silk tie, and neat red pocket square, finished with black patent shoes. His hair, fiery ginger curls, fell artfully over his forehead, making him seem almost boyish if you didn't look too long into his cold, greyish green eyes.

Thorin didn't bother to hide his own distaste, lip curling as Drake held his stare unblinkingly; after a few thunderous heartbeats of that, Thorin turned his attention to Bilbo. "Ready to go, love?"

Nearby, there came a definite squeak from Sophia, and Thorin very nearly laughed. Bilbo, for his part, slipped out from under Drake's hand with a firm shrug, then padded over and casually took Thorin's hand, twining their fingers. He had a slick red folder tucked into the crook of his arm, likely containing the details of Drake's offer. "Yes, I think so. Shall we have a late lunch?"

"If you like." Standing stock-still in his office door, Drake's porcelain complexion had gone deeply flushed, pink blotchiness creeping up from his collar, and his eyes were flashing green and furious, like burning copper.

"_You_—" More snarl than word, Drake clutched his own hands in white-knuckled fists at his sides before continuing, leashing the anger in his voice and dragging it down to a dangerous simmer. "I see you know Mr. Durin, William. Forgive me, but should I consider this meeting to have been an unfortunate waste of my time?"

"Not at all, Mr. Drake." Holding up the file, Bilbo's cheeriness didn't waver. "I'll be considering several options, including yours. Tom's my boyfriend, not my business partner or my publisher."

Thorin felt a shiver of pleasure settle hot in his belly at the word _boyfriend_, which he knew was a entirely ridiculous reaction for a thirty-six year old man to have, but he didn't make any efforts to quash it.

Drake's chin lifted, full mouth twisting unpleasantly for a moment, before he offered a shallow nod. "Indeed. Well then, I do hope you'll keep the scope of our resources in mind, and our extensive catalogue of bestsellers. Red Drake can turn a literary gem into a global phenomena, William, while some others might be strained to create little more than a _cult classic_. I'm certain you'll make a wise decision in the end."

There was little use in becoming rankled about the truth, but Thorin felt his hackles start to rise regardless, until a squeeze of Bilbo's fingers brought him back to his senses. The air was too charged, all but crackling with tension, but he had just scored a decisive blow against Drake's snake-like composure, and perhaps even his pride. Losing his temper now would undo all that fine work.

"Thank you, Mr. Drake," Bilbo said, giving nothing away. "I do appreciate your time. Tom?"

The two silent security guards, who had been loitering close by while Thorin waited, followed them all the way out after a razor-sharp look from Drake. Nina was speaking quickly and quietly into her earpiece when they entered the main lobby, and the harried, tearful look in her eyes was nearly enough to make Thorin feel a twinge of guilt, but not quite. He was fully aware how deeply and poisonously his hatred had settled, but he did not have much forgiveness to spare while a pompous usurper was still pissing all over his family's legacy.

With his blood singing with victory, and Drake's impotent fury fresh in his mind, Thorin made a point of kissing Bilbo sweet and slow as they stood on the pavement, still within sight of the large windows that allowed Drake's office such a grand view.

"That was _glorious_," he growled into silk-soft curls, then pressed another kiss against the curve of Bilbo's jaw and drew him in tight. "Fuck, I'm nearly hard— and all for you, my sly, clever little hobbit. I want to take you home and take you apart."

"I was serious about lunch," Bilbo replied, though the humour in his voice and his hands on Thorin's arse told a different tale.

"We can make something, pasta—" They were grown men on a very public street, but Thorin didn't care enough at the moment to let Bilbo go entirely, loosening his embrace but also stealing another lingering kiss. This man was his— his _boyfriend,_ apparently. His own; his Bilbo. His treasure, earned and kept. "After I have you spread across the chesterfield, screaming my name."

"I can work with that." Bilbo pulled back, flashing a cheeky little grin below his darkened eyes, then hailed down a passing cab.

* * *

"Oh! More, Thorin, _yes_—" With one foot flat on the floor, and the other knee braced on the chesterfield, Thorin had a great deal of leverage at his disposal. Pushing back to meet every thrust, even as his hands scrabbled to grip the upholstered arm above his head, Bilbo was incandescent in his pleasure, gasping and moaning against the cushions. "Harder, harder damn it— Fuck, make me feel it, feel it for _days_—"

He could manage harder.

Hoisting Bilbo's hips higher, getting the man on his knees, Thorin pressed his palm hard against the spine rocking before him, sliding his hand up to push shoulders down, pinning. His next thrust was deep and obscenely slow, grinding his cock into slick, gripping heat, and he let Bilbo curse him for another moment before pulling out almost entirely, then slamming back in so hard his own teeth nearly rattled. Something darker than the deepest mines and hotter than the heart of a forge swelled in Thorin's breast; his flesh burned, hungry to claim, to take, to mark that which was his own—

"Oh, yes— _Yes_!" Bilbo's voice was muffled against the chesterfield, heaving shuddering breaths as Thorin gave him harder, gave him _more_, but it was also very nearly a scream. "Thorin, _Thorin_, yes—"

Abandoning finesse for raw power, Thorin leaned forward, shifting his grip to the nape of Bilbo's neck as his hips kept snapping. Every drag of his cock out of Bilbo's arse was exquisite agony, and each relentless thrust back in sent lightning coursing through him, curling his toes and clenching his jaw. When he snaked a hand down to take hold of Bilbo's own straining, slick erection, the man's voice grew even louder, senseless and wordless except for one name.

The neighbours would be furious about the din, but Thorin had never heard anything so beautiful as his name wailed out on the desperate, heaving breaths of his Bilbo. His own, his fierce hobbit, sobbing for him, begging more and mercy both, and Thorin drank it all in as greedily as a dragon horded gold—

In an instant, it was too much, too perfect, golden and glorious, and Thorin felt heat sweep through him as his hips stuttered sharply, pressing deep, and all the edges of the world seemed to blur. He was still gasping against a heaving, sweat-slick back, blinking through the sting of salt in his eyes, when he felt a hand squeeze firmly around his slackened fingers, felt the thrust of Bilbo's cock into their shared grip and the clench of his arse, only a moment before Bilbo's own release slicked hot across their hands, and he was keening and squirming under Thorin's weight.

It would be fantastic, Thorin thought muzzily, fumbling a bit to grasp the base of the condom before pulling out, if he could figure out a way to avoid having earth-shattering revelations in the midst of spectacular orgasms. Unexpected soul-searching did nothing for the afterglow.

His skin was damp, too hot but cooling quickly, as he flopped onto the couch, blindly grabbing a tissue to wrap the tied condom, and he had an armful of handsome, contentedly writhing man in very short order. Crawling up to lie chest to chest, Bilbo was chuckling and panting between sloppy kisses, and Thorin could feel legs trembling where they tangled with his own.

"Oh, that was nice." Dragging his nose along Thorin's jaw, nuzzling against the grain of his beard, Bilbo's words slurred lazily. "Mm, lovely. Thank you."

"Mad hobbit," Thorin murmured, rasping low, and Bilbo's arm tightened its hold across his chest.

"Love it when you purr..." There was a cacophony of unpleasant realizations clattering around in Thorin's skull, and if it were even possible, he resented Rufus Drake even _more_ for inadvertently ruining such a beautiful opportunity for a mindless, hedonistic lie-in after such enthusiastic sex.

Luckily or not, Bilbo's stomach took the opportunity to gurgle incredibly loud, before Thorin could muster up enough wherewithal to broach his concerns.

"Dragging myself to the kitchen now," Bilbo said, not sounding at all embarrassed by his growling belly, and pressed a kiss against Thorin's collar. "Coming?"

"Shortly." Thorin was not too proud to take advantage of such a convenient opportunity to reorder his thoughts. "Go, make what you like. My credit card is in my trousers, if you'd rather order in."

Bilbo stretched, groaning sinfully as he pressed against Thorin from head to toe, then stumbled to his feet. "We'll see. Trousers? Ah."

Fishing Thorin's wallet out of the trousers that had migrated to a crumpled pile under the chesterfield, Bilbo also pulled on a pair of black boxer-briefs that managed not to be too loose in the hips by virtue of the soft pot of his stomach. "Nicking these," he said, always the unlikely burglar; he was likely getting lube all over them, but Thorin didn't object. Watching Bilbo totter out towards the kitchen in only a pilfered pair of pants was a beautiful distraction, though also an unfortunately brief one.

The moment he was alone, Thorin pressed his clean hand over his eyes, squeezing his temples. His gut was rolling, sick and violent, and he swallowed over the acrid sourness of bile creeping up into his throat. Gaining his own feet, he moved quick and silent to the bathroom, shutting himself inside and leaning heavily against the sink.

After a few deep breaths assured he wouldn't actually vomit, Thorin washed his hands briskly, keeping the water icy cold, then splashed his face. The shock was enough to make him grunt, especially as rivulets ran down his chest unchecked.

"Fuck." Blaine had an old magnet stuck to the side of the filing cabinet in his office, with a black and white photo of Einstein printed across the top, and a trite, misattributed quote beneath. Thorin must have read it thousands of times, and heard it more than once during those futile times he'd convinced his father to attend sobriety support groups, but he had never felt the words ringing in his ears quite so insistently as they did now.

_Insanity is repeating the same mistakes and expecting different results._

Cleaning himself up a bit more, playing for time, Thorin eventually found himself standing in the doorway to his kitchen, having thrown on his trousers and half-buttoned shirt. Bilbo was standing at the counter, ankles crossed, chewing on a slice of wheat bread smeared with jam; there were several menus unfolded beside him, and Thorin's mobile sitting atop the multicoloured pamphlets.

"I've called for a Chinese," Bilbo said, after swallowing his mouthful. "Should be twenty minutes, or so."

"You should take Drake's deal." The words felt like lead on his tongue, but Thorin knew they were right the moment he heard them aloud. "Or negotiate a better one, if need be, but you should publish with Drake."

"I— Sorry?" Thorin recognized the shocked expression flashing across Bilbo's face: he'd seen nearly the same thing in the mirror only shortly before. "Did you, wait... Thorin? I think I may have heard you wrong. You think— _why_ do you think I should take the deal?"

"Because—" Steeling himself, Thorin forced his feet to step forward, until he was close enough to cup one hand around Bilbo's cheek. "Oakenshield isn't nearly large enough to provide the distribution, the publicity, or even the print runs you'll need. Professionally, I cannot give you the service you deserve, and it would be incredibly selfish of me to try, knowing that. Red Drake... is the wiser choice."

Closing his eyes, unwilling to watch the confusion twisting Bilbo's face work its way to understanding, and perhaps even unneeded apology, Thorin bent to rest their foreheads together. Bilbo smelled of raspberry preserves and the musk of sex, and Thorin let his other hand stray up to stroke a nearly naked hip, seeking as much warm, comforting skin as he could touch.

"Thorin." Bilbo's arms slid under his shirt, palms pressing flat against Thorin's back; they were embracing against the counter while Thorin quietly went mad. "I don't... _Oh_. Oh, I see now. I remember."

The thought that Bilbo remembered Thorin's obstinate refusal to consider reason in the face of a challenge to his long-desired prize, his mind clouded by hoarded wealth, and his violent temper at a perceived betrayal... Thorin winced, aching with his own memories of a desperate apology, gasped through bloody teeth and cold, impossible pain wracking a ruined body, torn and shattered.

"You are a better man," Bilbo said softly, after a few moments of noisy silence, pushing his cheek more firmly against Thorin's hand. "A nobler man, than any prince or king I've ever met. But you're still an arrogant prat."

"What?" Drawing back, Thorin was too surprised for anger to take root immediately, and luckily enough Bilbo was quick to continue.

"Just listen a moment, will you?" There was a smile playing over Bilbo's lips as he pressed them briefly against Thorin's wrist. "You remember I told Drake that I was going to consider all my options, don't you? Well, I truly am." Before Thorin could say one word, Bilbo was ploughing on, smile twitching wider. "Whether I choose to work with Drake, or you, or someone else, it will be the decision I believe is best. I am a twenty-nine year old man who did, in fact, live perfectly well and manage my own not insubstantial finances for quite some time without Thorton Durin nearby to throw himself on his proverbial sword, or Thorin Oakenshield to do so, either."

"Bilbo—"

"No, hush." Pinching his ribs gently, Bilbo looked entirely too pleased with himself. This was nothing like what Thorin had expected from this conversation; he had never felt quite so wrong-footed so abruptly, and he wasn't the one wearing nothing but pants, standing in a kitchen on a Wednesday afternoon. "I am glad, so very glad, that you would do this for me, love. So, I am going to say thank you— thank you, Thorin, you beautiful arse— and then we are going to eat too much Chinese and comb through the fine print of Drake's offer together."

Thorin, Tom, had never been one for following— the sons of Durin were decision makers, leaders, and kings. The canny spark in Bilbo's eyes was wise to that truth, Thorin knew. This was a test, of a kind, but Bilbo was not playing the role of judge.

No, in this test Thorin would be left to judge his own choice, and live with it after.

"All right," Thorin said eventually, holding Bilbo's steady, gem-bright gaze. "All right. Whatever you wish."

Whether Mahal, some human god, or a force Thorin did not know— _something_ had brought him here, to this flat with this man before him. Perhaps it was by random chance, or for a purpose. There were certainly lessons he would have done well to learn before his life's blood had stained the valley ground at the foot of Erebor. Some lessons he might still learn— Tom Durin was an arrogant, stubborn man, sometimes cruel and often not fast to forgive. He was still too proud, too easily swayed by greed, and too quick-tempered.

But he was no longer quite as haughty as Thorin, son of Thrain had been; he hoped he was not so blindly stubborn or self-righteous, either. Perhaps he was a better man, or getting better.

If he could place his trust in a brilliant, foolish hobbit, without the crushing regret of death and squandered love to spur him on, then there might be hope, yet.

END


	4. Half What You See (1 - Four Days)

**Five times Blaine Fundin had a conversation about William Baggins, and one time he actually spoke to the man.**

_AN: You can blame this story on my undying love for the canon friendship between Bilbo and Balin, and how flawlessly Ken Stott is bringing him to life. Chapter titles will refer to how long it's been since Tom and Bill met in Bran' New Suit, and time will skip about._

* * *

**Oakenshield Fact #1: Deryn owns a terrier mix (actually a yorkie-poo) named Harley, who often spends her days napping in his office.**

* * *

Just barely resisting the urge to haul off and boot Tom's office door as it clicked firmly shut, Deryn rubbed one hand over his face, dragging hard. A bloody potted plant could have put all the evidence together and figured out _they're shagging_: the snickering phone call from the lads on Saturday, the mark he'd just seen on Tom's neck, and more than anything, the matching shit-eating smiles between Tom and the wee Baggins fella'.

"Bollocks," he said under his breath, then glanced over to find Oliver staring goggle-eyed at Tom's door, all but forgetting the tea cradled in his spindly, stained hands. "Ollie, damn it, don't you spill that."

"I— sorry? Oh!" There was fumbling, a bit of a wet patch on the hardwood, and Deryn left the lad to clean it up, stalking away to find some fucking answers instead. Blaine's door was wide open, and the man himself was hunched in front of his computer, sipping his own tea as his eyes darted over the screen.

Deryn stepped inside the office without knocking, and Blaine didn't bother looking away from the screen before speaking, absently adjusting his dark-rimmed reading glasses. "It's only ten past seven on a Monday morning, brother. I'm good, but I've not yet perfected time-travel."

"This isn't about the Delisle portfolio." Although getting that pinned down as quickly as possible was something of a priority as well; small as they were, they needed to take good care of their authors to keep them. Deryn didn't bother sitting, just pushed Blaine's guest chair aside and leaned both fists against the neatly kept but crowded desktop. "Did you know Tom was bringing William Baggins in here today?"

As livid as it might have made him if he'd been the only one kept in the dark, Deryn actually considered Blaine's shocked sputter to be a worse reaction.

"_What_?" Setting his cup down with a clatter and snatching a tissue to sop up the tea that had ended up in his beard, Blaine sat back in his chair, levelling Deryn with his full attention now. His glasses came off, folded into his hand, and his eyes were sharp as razors. "Are you certain? When?"

"Aye, I'd say fairly certain." Deryn jerked one thumb back towards the door. "He's here now, in with Tom."

"Great god almighty— what in the _hell_ is he doing?" Moving faster than one might have guessed from the white in his hair and stodgy exterior (another damned cardigan today, as beige and thick as oatmeal, layered over a dark red shirt and striped tie), Blaine was on his feet in an instant.

Then he paused, one hand resting lightly on the desk, and stared so hard Deryn could feel it in the back of his skull. It was a severely probing look Blaine had stolen from their mother, rest her soul, and it never failed to get Deryn's hackles up.

"You're not telling me everything," Blaine said after a moment of silence, and Deryn just barely managed not to twitch. Shagging an author, shagging _that_ author, might not have been the best decision Tom had ever made, but Deryn didn't have any intention of yapping about it, not even to his brother.

Straightening up to full height, Deryn squared his jaw. He wasn't some stripling, and Blaine wasn't Ma, even if he did harp on like an old woman. "What?"

"Tell me, brother."

"I'll tell you to piss off." If Blaine wanted more information, he could fetch it himself. "Then I'll tell you I'm going back to work. I've a pile of manuscripts taller than Ollie to see to, and no time to deal with this Baggins shite. This is me, passing the ball to Acquisitions."

Waving vaguely at his brother, Deryn beat a purposeful retreat. Weathering Blaine's frown was much easier to swallow than telling tales about Tom.

Business was business, sure, but they'd been mates forever and a day— it would take more than a few unprofessional gaffes to trounce that. And if Tom was going to start a midlife crisis by dipping his dick into the honey pot, getting off with an author of all the damned things, Deryn would still have his back. They'd been through stupider shite together, after all.

And it couldn't be all bad if it managed to banish the shadows from around Tom's eyes, if only for a little while.

"Go hide then, you cowardly arse," Blaine was calling after him, and Deryn made a point of reaching an arm back into his brother's office, just long enough to flip him the tongs, before legging it.


	5. Half What You See (2 - Three Months)

**Oakenshield Fact #2: the staff all have "family" supper together at the office at least once a week.**

* * *

It was a blustery afternoon of bitter drizzle, too windy for umbrellas, and a bite of chill had settled in his bones before Blaine made it back to the office. Hunkered down deep into the collar of his coat, he grumbled under his breath as an especially fat droplet of water dripped from the lintel of the Oakenshield door and snuck down his neck just as he was finally stepping inside.

Wiping his feet and doffing his sodden bunnet, all Blaine wanted was a cup of tea, a pair of dry socks, and a half hour to sit at his desk and ignore emails.

Nodding at Donald, who kept the phone cradled against his shoulder even as he passed Blaine a short stack of pink messages as he passed, Blaine squished his way down the corridor, every step reminding him of the perfectly serviceable galoshes he had forgotten at home that morning, and the sad, waterlogged state of his brogues.

The decision of which to do first— either slip into his office and peel out of his coat, or put the kettle on— might have been more challenging if not for the state of his office door (open, when he had left it shut), and the familiar laughter ringing out from inside.

Rolling his eyes heavenward for a brief, fortifying moment, Blaine made an effort to shake off the worst of his sour mood and trudged over to his door, dropping his briefcase with a thud as he stepped inside.

"Afternoon, lads," he said, only allowing a smidgen of wariness to colour his tone. He dearly loved these boys, these young men, but as a pair they had a tendency draw in nuisances like a lodestone drew nails.

Filip was standing, his back to the door, sliding bits of magnetic poetry around on Blaine's filing cabinet, while Kalle was spinning lazily in the guest desk chair, twisting a ruined paperclip between his fingers. The two of them were dressed in ratty jeans and dark hooded sweatshirts, looking— to Blaine's current ill-humour, at least— rather unfortunately like ASBOs taken human form.

"Hullo!" Setting his impromptu paperclip sculpture on the desk (which would go in the drawer with the others once the lads left, rather than in the bin, because Blaine had accepted long ago that he was a soppy old sod), Kalle twiddle a wave, rocking back in the chair and making the joints shriek. That long-suffering chair had survived much worse punishment at the hands and wriggly arses of years of young Durins, however; Blaine wasn't especially concerned.

Stripping out of his coat, hanging it and his cap on the back of the door, Blaine glanced briefly at his watch before bending to fight with tight, wet shoelaces. "You two are a bit early for supper, not that I don't enjoy a surprise invasion now and again."

"We needed to ask you something important," Kalle said, and Filip turned from his intent (and likely mildly vulgar) wordsmithing just long enough to add: "Before the hoards descend for supper."

Kalle paused, head tilting rather like a puppy reacting to a high-pitched noise. "Is it Thai or Indian tonight, by the way?"

"Ollie's choice, this evening." Finally peeling off his clammy socks, Blaine slipped his bare feet into the quilted slippers he kept on hand for situations just like this, sighing deeply as his mood took a distinct jump. "And I've no doubt he'll be wanting his chicken madras. Now, I am harbouring some doubts that tonight's takeout is your _something important._"

"Supper is incredibly important," Kalle insisted, while Filip stepped away from his poetry with a flourish, making room for Blaine to move past him and around to the other side of the desk. Blaine caught sight of _straining pink mountains_ among the scatter of tiny white magnets, and didn't bother looking further, claiming his chair instead.

"But _no_," Filip said, shooting his brother a brief, sideways glare. "That's not it. We wanted to ask, what's that thing called when you smash two words together to get another word?"

"Like spork," Kalle offered, when Blaine simply stared at the pair of them, baffled. "Or guyliner."

"Or bromance."

"Sexting."

"Tofurkey."

"Bootylicious."

"_Stop,_ for God's sake." Pressing fingertips against his temples, Blaine took a moment to assure himself that the evolution of language was a natural progression, a _good_ _thing_; he may have also felt a twinge of sympathy for his brother, combing through manuscripts from young up-and-comers, likely written on buggering iPhones. "Do... do you mean _portmanteau_? Like brunch, or Chunnel?"

The clap of Filip's hands together wasn't entirely expected, but Blaine managed not to jump. "Yes, exactly! Portmanteau. Oh, that does sound fancy."

"You're better than Google," Kalle said with a beaming grin, and damn it all, Blaine felt equal parts warmed by the bizarre compliment, and utterly _ancient_. "We're trying to think up one for Tom and Bill."

Blaine blinked, glancing between the lads. This was all becoming a bit like watching a foreign film with blurry subtitles. "You're what? Why on earth?"

"Because we really like Bill," said Kalle, as if it were entirely obvious.

Filip shrugged. "And they're just sickeningly _adorable_, so they need an equally cute and embarrassing name to torture them like they torture us. Like Brangelina, or TomKat._"_

"But their names are too short," Kalle continued. "Till? Bom? Doesn't work."

"I dearly wish this seemed madder than it does," Blaine said absently, drumming his fingers against his skull. "But you two have already set such an astonishingly high bar in that regard. I cannot even..." _Oh, sod it_. "How about... how about Billton? Or Thorill?"

"Hey, those aren't bad—" Filip began to say, but broke off with a yelp when Kalle slapped his palm against the desktop, popping up excitedly from his lounge on the chair.

"_Throbbing_! Throb, Thor... wait, no, that's no good—"

"And on that note," Blaine said, loudly. "I think it's best I leave you lads to it, informative though this has been. Off with you— go loiter around someone else until feeding time_._" Knowing better than to argue with Blaine's _work tone_, neither young man wasted time moving towards the door.

"Oh, and lads?" Stopping in the doorway, both Filip and Kalle looked leerily back at him. Blaine folded his hands on the desk, calling up a placid smile. "If you do trot out some Frankenstein's monster of a moniker within your uncle's hearing, I do trust you'll keep my involvement, minor as it was, entirely to yourselves. Unless you'd like him to know all about that lovely, statuesque lass from the gym—" Filip, leaning against the doorframe, flinched visibly. "Or our dear Oliver's mysterious new suitor." Kalle's eyes went wide as saucers, overtaking his face.

"How—"

"What—"

Blaine's smile simply widened. "Better than Google, remember? Off you pop, now."

* * *

_AN: more to come soon-ish, with any luck at all._


End file.
